I'm Coming Home Now
by GloriousBlackout
Summary: Bucky starts to write letters to Steve, while he tries to make sense of who he is after the events on the helicarrier.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N - I'm not entirely sure where this came from, but I had fun writing it. I hope you enjoy it and any feedback is appreciated :)**

 _Disclaimer - I own nothing_

* * *

 **25th August 2014**

Steve,

I know you're trying to find me. I'd rather you wouldn't, but I don't think there's much I can do about that besides stay one step ahead of you. Seriously though, save your energy. I'm not the man you want me to be, and I doubt you want to be faced with some monster wearing your old friend's face every waking moment.

I went to the exhibit, you know. I shouldn't have done that, shouldn't have let your words stick with me like that, but I was curious and I had nowhere else to go. Better to have shaky foundations to build a life upon than nothing at all, I guess.

Regardless, I'm not him. I can't be. He fell and he died and somehow I woke up in a lab. But everything he was, they tore away and left behind a shell. You've already grieved over him once; leave him be.

As for me, I'm safe. Alive, obviously, and I know how to look after myself. I even have money (courtesy of some very dead Hydra agents. They weren't complaining when I stole it). If that brings some comfort to you then fair enough.

I'm not even sure if I'll send this. I might keep this letter for now, or build up a collection and send you the notebook when it's full. Writing seems to help clear my head; makes the noise stop for a little while.

I'll see how it goes.

That said, please stop looking for me. If I see you again I want it to be on my terms. I need some choice in all of this; god knows it's about time.

 _James_

* * *

 **8th October 2014**

It's been a while, I'm aware. Haven't been able to stay still for long enough to write, but at least that provided a distraction. Having two conflicting lives in one's head isn't exactly a picnic; sometimes I almost wish they'd wipe me again just to shut my brain up for a few days.

All right, that may be an exaggeration. No matter how cold or tired I get on the streets, I know I'm better off far away from Hydra's control. I just wish the fallout of everything they did to me wasn't so exhausting.

I'm back in Europe for the time being (although good luck figuring out where because I'm certainly not going to tell you). Hydra may have built a vast network in America over the years but they're always going to be scattered here as well, and it's surprising how many traces of them you can still find if you know where to look. Most of their members here are well into their old age – older than us, some of them – but there's enough fresh blood hanging around as well. I blew up a base full of them yesterday.

That wasn't deliberate. I did go there in search of information at first, but the sight of it brought back memories I'd rather not dwell on. Suffice to say, I spent a large portion of the late 40s/early 50s being experimented on and trained there, and the sooner it burned to the ground, the sooner the world would be a better place.

I came across a younger Hydra agent on my way out, just after the building went up in flames. He'd been caught in the blast – lost both his legs and was riddled with shrapnel – but he was still alive and screaming at me to kill him.

I've heard it's a common trope that the hero choosing to let their enemy live, or at the very least giving them a chance, shows a strength of morals; an ability to be better than their opponent.

I'm not sure about you but I think that's bullshit. Leaving that kid screaming felt more monstrous than I'd have liked.

But then again, we were both monsters from the moment Hydra got their hands on us.

* * *

 **12th December 2014**

I think I'm starting to remember you. Not as flashes of memories that I can't make sense of or bits of information I only got because of the Smithsonian. Proper, fully-fleshed out memories of knowing you, of being your friend, of a life with you.

It's terrifying.

Not the memories themselves, there's something nice about having them. It feels like I'm a person again; helps stop the unease every time I make a choice for myself, as if I don't have that right. I like dreaming about being happy and having the freedom to go out dancing, or walk in the park with you, or drag you away from the umpteenth fight you got yourself into. It doesn't feel so long ago now, even though it must have been decades since we had that.

But for every good memory that comes along, I get memories from my time as the Soldier, and I see innocent people dying at my hand, from bullets I fired. I remember feeling nothing for them, only the obligation to report back to my handlers. Some of them were small children, or civilians who saw too much, and I still felt nothing for them. I didn't know how to.

Do you know what the worst thing is? I almost miss it. Not the torture or the training, but going out on the missions themselves; that brief taste of freedom I never got anywhere else. I was good at it; at killing cleanly and avoiding suspicion. I was good at being a ghost and, somewhere deep down, a sick part of me was satisfied by that.

That's what they did to me Steve. They took someone who was happy and whole and they turned him into a monster who was only ever free when he was sent out to kill.

Are you sure you still want me to come back?

* * *

 **24th December 2014**

I'm tempted to tell you to ignore the last page, but then I remember that you're unlikely to ever read this so there's no point. Not that everything I wrote doesn't count, because it does, but because I'm finally accepting that I'm trying to repent for what I've done and maybe that's what matters – more than what Hydra ever did to me.

I'm not sure the families of those I killed would agree. But it's a start.

Anyway, it's nice enough where I am. I found a shelter filled with people like me – veterans that is, not ex-assassins. They're considerably rarer.

We're all miserable and freezing, but the woman who works here brought us cake and proper meat for a shared meal tomorrow and she's spent the last few days trying to keep the place clean and somewhat comfortable. It's a false illusion of happiness, but everyone seems to be in a good mood anyway. This time of year does that to people; I remember.

I'll stay until tomorrow and then slip away. I already have a bag packed, just in case I need to go quickly. I doubt I'll be missed if I left now, but this'll be my first Christmas in over 70 years. I might as well try to enjoy it.

You'd probably have wanted me back with you by now. I'm sorry I can't be there, but try not to be alone at least. The old me, the version of me you're looking for, he wouldn't have wanted that. Don't let yourself be miserable on his behalf; he's owed better.

There's church bells going off somewhere. I guess it's midnight.

Merry Christmas Steve.

* * *

 **3rd January 2015**

I wish I could go home.

* * *

 **24th January 2015**

To expand on my last note; I'm aware it's impossible. Unless your friend (Stark?) somehow discovers time travel, and even then we'd probably fuck something up and change history beyond repair and yeah, I know, not worth it.

But the more I remember, the more I wish I could just go back to when times were simpler; when there was no war and we were just two poor, dumb kids trying to get by.

Not that the future's necessarily bad. There's a lot to like about it; whether it's the better food or the medical advances that mean all those illnesses I was sure would kill you when you were younger are now easier to treat, or the fact that there are actually people who have been to space.

And the music is amazing – there's so much of it and it's all different and new and varied in a way that it couldn't really be in the '30s. And you can listen to it all the time with earphones, instead of crowding round a wireless at a specific time of the day and hoping you didn't miss your favourite song. Stuff like this is something I probably dreamed of as a kid.

For the record, rock music is the best I've found so far, although I imagine pop's still good to dance to. Give me a few years and I _might_ be up for that.

I bet you like all those animated movies as well, what with your love of art. Most of them now would put that time I took you to see Snow White to shame. And yes, I remember that (although I did have to look up the name of the film).

There's a lot of awful shit too. I guess there was bound to be, in a world where Hydra could gain so much power while nobody noticed or cared. But the good things seem to make themselves more evident every day I'm here.

So yes, the future's fine.

I would still tear it all down for the chance to be back home.

It's a stupid thought to get caught up in. I know it can never happen. But the more I remember about how happy I was then, the more I wish I could just relive those moments, instead of tasting them for a few seconds before being forced to remember the awful things I've done as well. The person I was back then was worthy of being with you as well, whereas now... well, you know what I am now.

I guess I just miss being whole.

* * *

 **Sometime in March, I don't know**

I've found a downside to music being everywhere. That fucking song that's stuck in my head won't leave me alone no matter where I go. I'm starting to miss having to go to the neighbours to listen to their wireless.

* * *

 **2nd April 2015**

I fucking hate you sometimes.

I can't keep thinking back to the helicarrier, where I first started to truly remember that I was something other than what Hydra made me. And I only got that spark of memory because you were willing to let me kill you.

And I would have done. I didn't have a conscience as the Soldier, Steve, I couldn't afford one. I'd have been put down if I had. You were just another mission to me, in that moment, and you knew that, you must have done, and you refused to fight me even when I was intent on killing you, even when I _shot_ you...

What the hell would I have done if I only started to remember after I'd killed you? How could I possibly recover from that? You'd have killed us both by playing the martyr, only I didn't have a choice in the matter.

I get your reasoning. I get that you didn't want to hurt me.

But Christ, Steve, you're a fucking idiot.

* * *

 **15th April 2015**

I think I loved you. Not sure I ever did anything about it though.

Seems like past-me was as much of an idiot as you are. We're perfect for each other.

I'm not sure if I can ever feel like that again. I'm sorry, but I'll need to take the time to truly figure out how I feel about that.

I think I'm willing to try though.

* * *

 **22nd April 2015**

I miss the news for a week and suddenly there's killer robots everywhere and I can't look at a newspaper with seeing your face. Why has this become normal for us?

Anyway, try not to get yourself killed or blow up the world. I'd like to see you again first.

* * *

 **2nd May 2015**

I used to remember bits and pieces when they put me on ice, you know. They'd never wipe me before they placed me back in cryo; I won't pretend to know the exact reasoning behind that but I guess they thought if I went in there with a blank mind there'd be too much risk of me letting myself slip into a coma, considering I wouldn't fight to stay somewhat aware. They couldn't have an assassin with locked-in syndrome after all.

The thing is that, in a weird way, the times where I was closest to being myself was when I was drifting in ice for years at a time.

It's not quite sleep in there. I guess you'd know. If I was lucky the time would pass in darkness, as if I'd just rested my eyes and woke up later than I expected. It was less painful to come back from that.

Usually though, I'd start to get fragments of memories from a life I never even thought I had. Nothing complete – I never came out of the ice as 'James Buchanan Barnes' or anything – but I would remember sights and smells and the sound of laughter from a childhood I didn't even know I had.

And I would remember you. Your eyes, your art, sometimes the feeling of us cuddled up on the couch cushions when we were kids. Never your name though, nothing concrete that proved that you'd once been real.

Just enough to make me feel like something was missing.

Not that it ever mattered. The minute I was taken out of the ice for the next mission, they'd already be setting up the chair to wipe me clean again. If I came across as especially delirious, they'd just pass it off as side effects of the cold. You'd vanish all over again, until the next time they put me under, and on and on it went.

I'm amazed I can even remember those times now. They wiped me so often that most of my missions seem to be permanently erased, for better or worse, but not the ice. That I seem to remember all too well.

The life of a weapon is a lonely one, who'd have thought?

* * *

 **30th June 2015**

It's strange being back in Brooklyn. And yes, if you're wondering, I did choose a time where you happened to be on a mission halfway around the world to come here. Sorry about that. I just needed to do this alone.

Everything's changed. I've already vented about how different the future is, but it's strange to see it in a place I know. Our old apartment's still standing but I doubt it's habitable; it's just there for display. It even has a plaque with your name on it. Mine is mysteriously missing though (which is frankly rude. I died for this country too, you know).

I still want to go home. Which is a strange thing to say when I'm technically there, but everything that made it familiar has been stripped away, and even if that weren't the case, it's not as if I could step back into our old life, is it? I'm never going to wake up to go work at the docks again, or drag your small ass out of an alley, or go to a science fair where the future is some fantastical entity where cars will fly and everything will be better. We're never going to have any of that again.

I guess you're my home now. You're the one thing that remains from back then, the one thing I could still have if I really tried.

I'll consider it.

* * *

 **7th September 2015**

I killed an old man today.

Probably not the sentence you wanted to read (although at this rate, you probably never will) but I had good reason to. He was one of the original scientists who worked on the Winter Soldier project. In short, he helped to create me. So he can be as frail and old as he likes, I still fucking hate him for it.

He recognised me as well. Still had enough of his mind left to do that, and when I aimed the gun at his forehead he almost seemed content. Perhaps he found something poetic in the situation; that he would meet his end at the hands of the monster he helped create.

It almost makes me wish I'd just left him to waste away slowly instead. Almost.

* * *

 **23rd September 2015**

I think I'm being followed. I can't tell who by – the government or Hydra or both – but I know the feeling of being watched all too well and it's not going away no matter how far I go. It's not you, I know that. I probably wouldn't even mind if it was. At least I know you want me alive.

I haven't missed the growing tension after what Ultron did. People know that we're dangerous now; all us freaks of nature and geniuses. Sometimes we do more damage to the world than the things we're trying to save it from. I'm prepared to be hunted down any day now - I'm one of the most dangerous people in the world after all, and my hands aren't exactly clean. I'm dreading that day, but I'm prepared. I'll be fine.

If I do get caught though, or killed (which seems likely), and you miraculously find this, I want you to know that I remember you. I'm not quite sure I'm Bucky yet, but I know I want to be. I feel like I could be if I try. The main thing is, I remember you and, if I get the chance, I want to find you again. I hope that day comes.

And as much as I still think you're an idiot for not fighting me when you could, I'm grateful that you never stopped trying to save me. You're the reason I got a brief taste of freedom, and for that I owe you the world.

Anyway, enough sappiness. I haven't been caught yet. I am likely to be constantly on the run soon though, so the time to stop and write is going to be sparse at best. I'll keep the book with me though; maybe I can find a way to have it passed onto you if/when I'm gone.

* * *

 **13th March 2016**

It's been a while since I've written in this. I'd almost assumed that I'd lost it, or left it behind somewhere when I was on the run. I guess it wouldn't have mattered if I had – I don't need to talk to you on a page anymore – but there's only so much I can say to your face. I need this for just a little while longer, just to vent, and then I'll get rid of it. Or maybe I'll even let you read it, but that won't happen for a long while yet.

I should have thanked you. When you got me out of that fucking vice, I should have thanked you.

I'm not sure why I didn't; only that seeing you after so long, and finally being able to remember you, if only a little... I don't know, I just wasn't prepared for how I would feel about that. I've been trying to remember you for two years now (and writing in this has helped) but there's something strange about you finally being solid and real, and even after being back with you for a month, I'm not quite sure how to deal with everything.

I guess I'm just trying to figure out where I stand now. Being on the run and hunting down what was left of Hydra gave me more purpose than I'd thought; it feels strange to suddenly be standing still.

Sam helps. He's patient and he doesn't force me to talk, but when I do he's a good listener. I can see why you like him. I guess it's just easier for me to talk to someone I don't know than it is to spill my heart out to you. Less baggage involved, I imagine.

Anyway, I'll say it here. Thank you for finding me and keeping me safe. I've missed you too.

* * *

 **21st March 2016**

Please stop looking at me like I'm broken. I know you don't mean to, and you only seem to do it when you think I don't see you, but it's annoying all the same.

I'm not your failure, Steve.

* * *

 **23rd March 2016**

I'm sorry I woke you up last night. I'd hoped that after two years of freedom the nightmares would have calmed down, but no such luck. Sam would probably have advice or words to say about that, but I'd rather not discuss it with him just yet. I need to trust him a little more first.

It was the helicarrier again. I was hitting you, trying to kill you, while you lay there doing nothing, and the worst part about it was that I _knew_ who you were. Who I was. I was the man I am now, and I was still trying to kill you.

It wasn't real. I know that. There's no chance of that happening in real life, not while I have a choice in the matter, but I'm still dangerous and every second you spend with me puts you and others at risk. Makes you wonder if I'm worth it.

I'm grateful to you though. You woke me up before the worst of it and you stayed with me until I fell asleep again. Probably stayed a little while after that as well. I'd forgotten how lonely it is to sleep alone after all those times we cuddled together when we were kids and during the war (also - sharing body heat, my ass. You just wanted a hug).

I might have to return the favour one day, when you can't sleep for all the horrors in your head. Thankfully the opportunity hasn't come up yet.

Either that or you're just better at hiding than I am.

* * *

 **1st April 2016**

Tell Sam he isn't funny. He's enjoying himself far too much today.

* * *

 **12th April 2016**

I made you smile today. A proper smile, not one of those sad ones you seem to wear constantly. It was nice to see that again; reminded me of the good old days. Although, back then, getting you to smile was a lot simpler than telling you I remembered seeing the fireworks with you on your eighteenth birthday. I don't know why that memory suddenly came back to me but I'm glad it did.

I'm starting to think we might actually be okay one day. Probably a fool's hope but I want to believe it.

(also Sam's now promised to have a camera on him at all times just in case I make you smile again. I can't tell if he's joking or not).

* * *

 **18th April 2016**

I love you too.

Took us long enough to come out with that, didn't it?

Yours,

 _Bucky_


	2. Epilogue

**A/N - Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed and favourited this story! Here's a quick epilogue; I hope you enjoy it :)**

* * *

Bucky thinks his world ends when he walks into his room to find Steve, knuckles white around a familiar notebook he should have placed more care in hiding.

It's his own fault; he'd been so clumsily delirious after seeing Steve smile again that he'd made no effort to hide the book after his last entry, momentarily forgetting just how horrific some of the letters were. For all he'd thought about sending the book on to Steve one day, the reality of it had never really sunk in, even in the earlier days where he'd been more Soldier than Bucky. There are things written in those pages that make him feel sick and inhuman; he can still see the young Hydra agent pleading for death and the old man with calm acceptance in his eyes before the trigger was pulled. He can't begin to imagine what Steve must think of him now.

Bucky doesn't blame Steve. Curiosity is a powerful thing, he knows, and it was idiotic not to dispose of the book the minute he'd reunited with his old friend and could talk to him face-to-face, instead of placing lines on a page. He'd just hoped that if Steve had to read it at all, it would be after Bucky was dead and unable to confront the disgust he must surely feel towards him now.

Only, Steve doesn't look disgusted. He glances up the moment he notices Bucky is there and something like shame flashes in his cheeks, but he does not back away. His eyes are wet like he's been blinking back tears and Bucky feels guilt constricting his chest once more, reminding him that he has only ever been able to hurt Steve. He would give anything to see that bright smile instead; the one relic from the past that is real and tangible and does not hurt.

Bucky thinks he would set the world on fire for that smile, and it's a harsh reminder that he is still not a good man.

Steve hesitates in front of him, closing the book over as if that can erase what was read. "I'm sorry, Buck, I shouldn't have..." The words catch in his throat, and it's only now that Bucky notices that he's been holding his own breath. His chest burns and he wants to explode or disappear or both, but instead all he can do is stand still.

Steve recovers quickly, places the book back on the desk he'd lifted it from, and approaches Bucky cautiously, like he's some wounded animal. Still, Bucky can see no disgust or hatred in his eyes, and it makes him wonder if Steve is even capable of feeling it. Anyone else knowing what he'd done as the Soldier would despise him - as they should, he thinks. Instead, Steve stops right in front of him; close enough to touch but too careful to try.

"Is it okay if I hug you?" Steve asks, hesitant, and the question is so unlike the bile Bucky had expected that it barely sinks in. Steve's eyes are pleading, hopeful, and even though he knows he doesn't deserve the comfort being offered, Bucky knows he cannot refuse him.

At his single nod, Steve's arms wrap around him and hold him close; letting Bucky's head rest against his shoulder. He's warm and solid in a way that feels like home, and Bucky knows he doesn't deserve this, but he can't bring himself to pull away. He closes his eyes and wraps his own arms around Steve, lightly so as not to hurt him, and the feeling takes him back to his old life so completely that he cannot breathe.

"You're not a monster," Steve whispers, and it's said with more certainty than the man has shown since they found each other again. Bucky knows that isn't true – seventy years of torture and death too deeply ingrained in his soul to make him anything but a monster – but hearing it from Steve makes him wish it was. He feels more fragile than he can ever remember being since he left Hydra behind, but he finds that it doesn't matter so long as Steve is with him. "You left Hydra when you had the chance and you chose to come back to me. You're not to blame for what they did to you."

Bucky finds that he's shaking and tries to hold himself together but he can't. He doesn't know how Steve is doing it, but he can feel two years of doubt and self-hatred melt away for a few precious moments, and he finds that he wants to believe what Steve is telling him. He'd once thought that he could never be Bucky again, could never even be _human_ again. Perhaps this – accepting that Steve could be right - isn't so impossible either.

He feels Steve pull away slightly and only then does he open his eyes and look up at his friend's face. He's been crying – silent tears sliding down his cheeks – but he doesn't seem to care. Bucky imagines he must look a wreck himself, only he doesn't have the strength to cry.

Steve looks at him for a quiet moment, and it's a moment where Bucky almost expects the facade to fall away; for Steve's eyes to harden and his words to warn him to get the fuck away from him and his friends.

Instead he hears "I love you," followed by "I always will."

And something inside of him shatters.

Later, after he's allowed himself to be cradled in Steve's arms until he can't cry and expose his wounds any longer, he finds himself staring down at the shabby notebook he'd kept for two years – despite buying it with the sole purpose of sending a single letter. He supposes he no longer needs it; it was a barrier between himself and Steve that is no longer needed now that they've opened their hearts to each other so completely.

He's not sure he can bring himself to dispose of it though. There's brutal ancient history in those pages, but there's also recovery and perhaps he needs the reminder of that. Besides, there's room for one more entry and the thought of it makes him smile. The book is no longer a sore point for him – had ceased to be the moment Steve joked they could add his name to the plaque on their apartment (the reminder of which had made Bucky give a raw bark of laughter that surprised even him) – and writing in it no longer brings the trepidation it once had, two long years ago.

He picks up a pen and scribbles a brief, final entry:

 **18th April 2016**

I love you too.

Took us long enough to come out with that, didn't it?

Yours,

 _Bucky_

* * *

Leaving the book out in the open is considerably more deliberate this time.


End file.
